Tactile Contact
by Rosie Cotton
Summary: A boyhood fantasy, Data. I must have seen this ship hundreds of time in the Smithsonian, but I was never able to touch it..." Cadet Picard wanders through the Smithsonian. One-shot, gen.


Author's Note: I have never actually visited the Smithsonian Institute, so forgive me if I don't describe it correctly! If you've been there and have corrections for me, I'd be happy to hear them.

Constructive criticism, please! Of course, "OMG your story ROCKS!!!" is always nice, but concrit really helps me as a writer. Flame if you must, but be warned that you'll just be laughed at.

See the story. Reeeeeead the story.

The young man wandered the nearly-empty corridors of the museum, his black boots making almost no sound against the metal floor. Close-cropped sandy brown hair and soft hazel eyes were set against a sharply angular face, the combination quite striking. His very tidy and extremely utilitarian clothing belied the aimless nature of his stride and the dreamy look in his eye as he lovingly perused each display.

The science wing of the Smithsonian occupied more than half the grounds of the large and renowned institute; at least a third of that was taken up with exhibits from what history called the "Computer Age", from about 1950 through to 2100. This was where the man wandered now; he had been here for several hours, and had barely noted the passage of time in any capacity. This place was amazing, no matter how many times he saw it.

The ceiling yawned overhead, allowing for some of the larger items on display; anyone else would have felt tiny and lost, but not this man. His eyes passed over the familiar exhibits: the first personal computer, circa 1984;the recovered space probe _Voyager_, circa the mid-1970s; an antiquated "lap-top", circa 1998; the first commercially sold digital book, circa 2021. Behind him were the crude, oversized computers from the 1940s; ahead of him were the first transporters and replicators. He felt as if he were travelling through time.

And then he saw her.

She wasn't very large, compared to the standard starships and other spacecraft of the modern times. But compared to many other things in the building, she was huge, her base far below the floor and her tip nearly touching the cavernous roof. She was in the shape of the nuclear missiles he'd seen so many pictures of; the weapons of mass destruction that could kill millions with the press of a single button. There had been thousands used in the destructive Third World War; but somehow this one had never been fired, and had remained, perfectly preserved, in its underground shelter in Montana. Thus had the genius scholar Dr. Zephram Cochrane found it, and the rest, as they say, was history....

He had seen her many times before, but each time, she held just as much awe, perhaps more, as the previous experience. She was impractical and bulky, crudely built, patched together – but to his eyes, she was beautiful.

The _Phoenix_.

He knew that there was a force-field around her, as there was around most of the exhibits at the Smithsonian; but he was drawn to her despite this. The effect she had on him was almost hypnotizing. He just wanted to touch her once. Just once. Was that such a bad thing?

He wondered how close he could get to her without encountering obstruction. He could see the force-field generators in the wall. As he reached out a hand, expecting to feel a shock to his fingers, nothing happened.

This was curious. Wondering, he reached his hand a little farther. Nothing.

As he turned to examine the generators, his eye caught the chronometer on the wall. It was near closing, and the force-fields would be turned off for maintenance....

A smile spread across his face.

He inched almost reverently towards the massive ship. He was only a metre away from her now. Her hull shone bright in the artificial lighting, the ancient screws that held her together glinting dully. He could practically feel the history radiating from her. His arm reached towards her; he would just touch her once, feel her cool metal under his fingertips....

"Jean-Luc!"

Jack Crusher's voice jolted Jean-Luc Picard from his trance. His arm jerked back almost guiltily, and he leaped back behind what would have been the force-field.

Jack Crusher jogged towards him, his clear blue eyes filled with relief. "Jean-Luc, there you are! You wandered away and we couldn't find you and...oh, you've been gone for hours! What were you doing?"

"Just...wandering," Jean-Luc replied, smiling. "You know how I get."

"Oh, yeah," Jack replied, sighing. "Whew! We thought you'd gotten lost or something. This place is pretty huge."

"Well, I'm sorry to worry you. I couldn't possibly get lost here; I know this place like a childhood treehouse."

Jack laughed. "Don't worry about it. But hey, I met a girl, and for once you weren't there to beat my time!"

"Oh, really?" Picard's eyebrows raised curiously. "What's her name?"

"Beverly Howard. And she's _gorgeous._ I think she liked me...."

"Do tell." Picard's expression was amusedly curious.

Jack glared at him. "I shall, as a matter of fact. Come on, let's go. I'll tell you about it back at the Academy."

"Oh, I'm sure you will..."

The two wandered away in the direction of the transporter, bantering and laughing.

The Phoenix stood tall and proud behind them, gleaming in the light, There she stands to this day – the centuries-old fingerprints of Jean-Luc Picard still miraculously intact near her lower left hatch.


End file.
